I am writing you today with crushing sadness and unquenchable rage, to inform you that the wings Red Bull gave me are completely vestigial.

It all began at The Squirt Factory, the most exclusive nightclub in Milpitas, California. There, on Saturday, September 27th at approximately 1:45am, I consumed an eldritch concoction known as a “Bull Rush”. A Bull Rush is a drink made with vodka, black currant juice, Red Bull, and a tenth of a bottle of absinthe. I don’t know what depravity inspired this drink’s creation, but my friends inform me that I ordered it only after consuming the first nine tenths of the bottle of absinthe.

Perhaps the wing-growth that your product promised was inhibited by the alcohol, the absinthe, or even the neon yellow sweat that began to bead on my flesh within seconds of finishing my Bull Rush. Also, I haven’t urinated since the night of the incident but my clothes all smell like pee. I think it’s because I pee through my skin now.

But I guess, technically, none of your ads promised that Red Bull wouldn’t make you pee through your skin, so that’s not what I’m writing about. Nevertheless, I wish you’d put a warning on the cans.

What I’m writing about is the fucking wings.

Seriously, these wings suck. They’re only two feet long, which is big enough to be noticeable but not big enough to be useful. They don’t generate sufficient aerodynamic lift to assume a glide path, let alone hover or propel me directly into the air, as is clearly and unambiguously promised in your commercials.

In short, I can’t use these wings for anything and now none of my bras fit. Please help.

Earthboundedly yours,

Robyn

P.S. I’m sorry about that ‘unquenchable rage’ crack. I didn’t mean to imply that your product might fail to quench either thirst or rage.